There is a very bright and wonderful part of my life that doesn’t often make it to these posts. It’s those girls you see above.
The older one has taken to calling me “dude.” When I suggest this is no name for a mother, she replies that she’s gotten so used to addressing her friends with the moniker that she can’t help herself.
I console myself that at least she mixes me up with her friends and that I’m not such a stuffy mom that I need to stop her.
So, Dude I am.
The other day, I went to fetch one of the girls to practice her musical instrument.
The door to the room they share was closed, but I could hear Miley Cyrus’ warble leaking out the cracks. I opened the door slightly to see my daughters engaged in some sort of dance, back to me, strange hats arranged on each of their heads.
I ran to get the video camera.
Once I entered the room and they saw what I was up to, the choreography devolved into the younger run running up and back to the camera, filling the video screen with her wildly grinning face, slapping at the camera lens, then running back to her sister to bap her on the rear.
The older one continued to “dance,” mixing her moves up with the occasional half cartwheel and full-frontal fall to the floor. And she lip-synched. To Miley, and then to the Jonas Brothers.
The best part of the evening was when we replayed this scene on my PC (after a year, I finally figured out how to download my videos to the PC). The girls gathered around the screen to watch themselves, hysterically laughing at their antics.
What better entertainment than to watch yourself on TV?
Wow. If only I could get paid hanging out with my girls (when I’m not getting paid reading novels, writing my blog, or any number of spare time activities…), I’d quit that job in a nanosecond.
Or whatever fraction of a second is smaller.
Dear Lord: Thanks for my girls. Forgive me for allowing other circumstances to swallow up my gratefulness with angst. Amen.